“What are you reading now?” Sage asks.
“The Help,” I say, because it seems less of a lie if I’m living it.
Another night out. A house concert at Sage’s neighbor’s. It’s a jazz trio from Montreal, I think they’re almost famous. They work the tap-pelt-tap of the rain against the solarium into the rhythm of their songs.
In the intermission, we spill onto the covered patio with a bottle of wine. Tommy’s cracking jokes with men in suits. I avoid eye contact. I don’t want to presume familiarity after one conversation. Also my dress. It’s passable, a Diane von Furstenberg I scored for twelve bucks at the Salvation Army, but I feel like the plain cousin of the princess he met at the ball.
A tap on my shoulder. “Win anything good at the fundraiser?”
I spin to face Tommy, my shoulder on fire from his touch. “Dog treats,” I say. “Would you like them? I don’t have a dog.”
“Sure. I won a yachting adventure. You like boats?”
“I love boats. But Hannah—” I instantly feel stupid. He wasn’t inviting me, just asked if I like boats. I recover with, “We haven’t taken her boating yet.”
“Is your husband into boating?”
“Are you kidding? He can’t spare the precious time from the characters inside his computer.” I should shut up. I don’t know why I’m being so blunt. “He’s a writer.”
“Anyone I’ve heard of?”
I mumble, “Jake Carruthers.”
“The Giller winner? Does Sage know?”
“No.”
“She’ll go ape. When she read Rebecca’s Room, it was all she could talk about for months.”
He lights a joint and passes it to me. As our fingertips touch, electricity shoots through my arm and down to the place I didn’t think had any electricity left. I take a puff and feel the beat of the rain against the gazebo roof. I haven’t felt this free since summer camp.
A shout from inside tells us intermission is over.
The second set is better than the first. I can see notes from each instrument float through the air, the smooth double bass, the lively piano, the melancholy saxophone. Tommy’s beside me on the couch. It’s only his leg pressed into mine, but it’s enough.
He walks us to Sage’s door. The others go in for a nightcap and he says, “I’m not going to kiss you. I hate to wreck a home.”
“Good,” I say. Because all my impulses urge my lips toward his, but it would be the end of everything.
The bus driver makes an aggro face when I ask him to lower the ramp for Hannah’s stroller. I’d like to ask why he’s too important to perform the entire scope of his job description, but I’m breaking bail. I can’t afford to be memorable.
We’re going on a little trip, Hannah and I. A ferry to Nanaimo and then up, up, up the island until we find our remote haven, a town with bad cell service and a diner where I can work for cash, where Hannah can get dirt in her toenails and slurp popsicles and it can be the two of us against the world.
Except I won’t raise her to be against the world. She will firmly own a place in it, as much as Emmaline.
“Tommy told me who your husband is.” Sage winks as we arrive at Gleneagles for music class. Jake’s parents sprung for the ten-week course, so I’m less bitter about dusting their ugly art collection. “You’re so modest, I can’t believe you haven’t said a word.”
I unbundle Hannah. I bought her an adorable Hatley raincoat secondhand. Five bucks. No rips. Bought myself some lightly used Lulu too, so we’re a snazzy West Van duo.
“I’ve heard artists are impossible to live with. What’s he working on?”
“He calls it a love story.”
“Are you still in love with him?”
Hannah is busy chasing Jenna’s son around the music room. I glance to make sure she’s out of earshot. “I love who he was in Toronto. I loved bartending on Bloor Street and walking home to our duplex apartment in the Annex, his hair a sexy mess because he hadn’t left his desk the whole time I’d been out.”
“Why did you move west?”
I smooth my hand along the dirty carpet. I want the teacher to arrive, the hello song to start. “Jake’s parents are here. We wanted Hannah to be close to her grandparents.”
“You live with them?” She puts two and two together real quick.
“We’re staying in their boathouse while we look for a place of our own.”
Sage nods. “The boathouse. I like it. Rebecca’s Room.”
“I’ll tell him you loved his book. It will make his day.”
“Can I tell him myself?” Her eyes sparkle. “Come for dinner on Saturday.”
“My husband’s in Tokyo,” Sage says as the butler hangs our coats. “I asked Tommy to stand in.”
Tommy grins from the couch, raises his beer in salute. The cheesiest smile plasters itself onto my face and won’t leave.
Sage touches Jake’s shoulder. “I want to show you the library.”
We use the library for story time, the round white room, twenty feet high of reclaimed wood bookshelves with a dome skylight and sliding ladder. There’s a mezzanine with beanbag chairs where Sage reads The Gruffalo and Corduroy with dynamic dramatization. She was an actor before she had Emmaline. Not famous, but I remember a Tide commercial she was in.
Jake whistles. He suddenly doesn’t seem so annoyed to be away from his computer tonight.
“See the desk? You can write there if you ever need a change of scenery.”
“No shit?” Jake’s eyebrows shoot up.
“I’d be honored. Jake Carruthers working between these walls.”
I leave to put Hannah to sleep in the spare crib. As I sing her a lullaby, I try to forget that Jake finds brunettes sexier than blondes, that Sage has everything to offer and I have nothing left to give.
The Amber Alert comes while we’re exploring the upper deck of the ferry. The photo: Hannah beaming from the top of Sage’s rock wall. The message: Hannah Carruthers, twenty months, possibly traveling with her mother, a murder suspect out on bail. A description of us that includes what we’re wearing right now.
I hurl my phone into the Georgia Strait. If they’re tracking it, they’ll know we boarded the boat.
Sage’s wine cellar could be in a magazine. There’s a long dinner table, a full-service bar, and a lounge with comfy seating. She opens the dumbwaiter and presents four plates with one scallop each.
“An amuse-bouche. Qualicum Beach scallops in a white wine marijuana butter sauce.”
“I’ll skip this course,” I say. “I can’t be a mess if Hannah needs me.”
“Maria has the girls covered.” Sage air-swats my concern. “She has bottles, books, she knows a million lullabies.”
Jake squeezes my hand. “Let’s get our life back.”
He’s right. I need to chill. I spear my scallop and let the butter melt on my tongue. It’s more exquisite still for the pinot gris Sage pairs it with.
Jake eyes up Tommy. “So you’re the man, hey?”
Tommy grins like he doesn’t understand the question.
“The sports team, the car dealership, the high-rises. No one can touch you.”
I stroke Jake’s hand to help him loosen up, to not be insecure, to enjoy his meal and not spoil the friendship that has opened new worlds for Hannah.
Tommy shakes his head. “There’s tons of richer guys than me. What no one can touch is your talent. I read Rebecca’s Room last year. Your Manderley was even better than duMaurier’s.”
Jake’s hand relaxes. I melt into him and the couch and it reminds me of the easy days when we drank beer and watched Netflix with takeout. Before Hannah entered screaming, forcing us to claw for our fair share of showers and sleep like rivals on a game show called Who’s Got the Time? I watch Tommy in his club chair, a linebacker’s body with a mind I’m dying to penetrate. I want to combine them into one perfect human, and I want them separately, naked, with all their flaws.